


Big Brutus

by Fenix21



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, John's POV, Light Angst, Young Winchesters, hurt!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 00:53:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5950018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenix21/pseuds/Fenix21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not all the memories were bad...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this one came out of no where while I was in the shower. Don't ask questions. Just go with it. :)

They'd covered nearly twelve hundred miles in the last week from Tennessee to Arkansas to Oklahoma to the southern edge of Kansas, and put down two ghosts, a revenant, and a poltergeist. Needless to say, they were exhausted.

Dean was crashed out in the back seat, still sore from getting tossed half the length of that ranch style house where the poltergeist had been ruminating in the storage closet. John was on his fourth cup of coffee since eleven this morning and it was only just after three. The sun was high and bright, just past mid-summer, and coupled with doing most of the driving for the last forty-eight, his own set of sore muscles from the last hunt, and the crystal bright light and warmth of the sunshine coming through the Impala's windshield, John was feeling pretty sleepy himself.

A small white sign came into view a quarter mile down the road. 'Big Brutus this way.' The corner of John's mouth lifted at the memory of he and Mary coming out on one of their aimless getaway weekends, that amounted to picking a direction and driving, and ending up at the foot of the second largest electric strip mining shovel in existence. He remembered being overawed by the sheer mass and size of the thing, and Mary had been giddy staring up at the sixteen story monolith. They hadn't been able to go up to the top. The kind lady in the souvenir shop had cautioned against it upon seeing Mary's gravid condition. John had assuaged her disappointment with the purchase a two souvenir shot glasses and the promise of a sparkling grape juice toast that night at their motel. Later, after they had wiled away the afternoon exploring the hulking mechanical beast, Mary had extracted a promise that they would return with Dean after he was born.

They'd never come back, of course. John had taken on more work at the garage to make ends meet because who could ever be properly prepared for the real cost of having children, and by the time Dean was of any age to appreciate the trip, things between John and Mary had gotten a little rough and the last thing on their minds was a vacation or time alone together. Then Sam had come along, and the demon, and the fire, and…

John twitched the wheel back center, realizing he'd started to drift, either off into the past or to sleep, he wasn't entirely sure which. The sign was only a hundred feet up ahead now, and he made the snap decision to turn before he really even had time to think about it. He swung the Impala right, a little suddenly, rousing Sam from his book where he was curled in the shotgun seat reading ever since he'd woken up about seventy five miles back and climbed over the seat back to let Dean continue on in dreamland uninterrupted. 

'Dad?' Sam queried, voice a little rusty from lack of use over the miles.

John jutted his chin to another sign further on, and Sam tracked with his direction. 'What'd'ya think, Sammy? We could use a stretch of the legs, huh? Think Dean'd like it?'

Sam's eyes immediately lit up, but they were hooded, too, wary of this sudden turn of events. Literally. It wasn't like John to get off the beaten track, or take a break between one place and the next for anything more than gas, food, coffee, sleep (but only if he had to), and to fix the Impala if she was ailing. He glanced back at the sign and then over his shoulder at Dean, still snoring softly in back, and then gave a quick nod, letting out a cautious little smile. John nodded back and focused on the road that had a posted sign about every five hundred feet (as if you could miss it with no turn offs) making sure travelers made their destination point and offering fun facts about the upcoming metal monster that could be seen quite easily looming up beyond the sparse tree line in the near distance. 

There were no other cars in the lot when they turned in, and for a moment John thought they might be out of luck, but the an old man in overalls and a farmer's cap came ambling around the side of a building carrying a bucket and smiled and waved before continuing on across the lawn. John took that for the welcome it was and slid out of the driver's seat, bones creaking and whining to match the chassis as he shifted his weight. Sam slipped out the other side and John motioned to him. 

'Why don't you wake your brother up, get him moving. I'll go get us some tickets and a couple bottles of water.'

Sam nodded and ducked into the backseat, climbing over the footwell to reach up a hand and soothe it between his brother's shoulder blades, careful to avoid the big bruise above Dean's right kidney from where he'd hit the wall in that house last night. Have to keep an eye on that one. Kid started pissing blood, and John would call a halt to his macho 'play through the pain' act. He supposed he only had himself to blame, pushing both the boys to their limits and past them, by increments, because the monsters were never going to wait for you to catch your breath or feel the pain. Some of it was just old marine training, too. Never let them see you bleed. 

He left Sam with Dean snuffling and resisting wakefulness by batting at this baby brother's coaxing hands, and took a stroll up toward the visitor center. The door advertised 'comfort facilities', though John doubted that meant anything as full service as a bed to sleep in or a diner with hot meals, but they did offer showers open to the public, probably for campers as there were RV pads off the lot a ways that he'd spied when they drove in. 

It was air conditioned inside, had the same wide open warehouse feel he'd noticed the first time he was here, though they'd added a few more features and some scale models. There were shots glasses on a shelf to the right of the counter. Same pattern he'd bought Mary all those years ago. 

'Well, hello!'

An older lady with graying hair and kind eyes, the sort you'd expect to find answering the door at Little Red's house, came out of the back room, summoned by the tinkling bell above the door no doubt. She was smiling, and it only deepened when she gave him the once over, which was surprising considering he hadn't had a shower in thirty-six hours at least and was covered in a thin layer of general dust and sweat and probably had a smattering of bruises showing that he'd forgotten to cover.

'You come to get a look at the big man?' she asked.

John smiled, put his hands up flat on the counter, and nodded. 'Yeah, been on the road awhile. Needed a stretch and saw the signs.'

'There are certainly plenty,' she said easily, and tilted her head for a look out the door, where Sam and Dean were coming up the walk. Sam was under Dean's shoulder, nestled close, nearly in a headlock, on his unbruised side. John's trained eye caught the lean in his eldest son's gait and surmised that Sam must have come to the same conclusions and posted himself there for support.

'Your boys?' the woman asked. John nodded, and she waited for the door to open before she continued with, 'Such fine, handsome young men.'

Even half awake, hurting, and no doubt in a rough mood, Dean wasn't one to miss a compliment no matter what quarter it came from. He looked up and grinned, and straightened just a little, taking his weight off Sam's skinny shoulders. Sam just blushed and ducked his head into Dean's side and let his bangs fall over his eyes. 

John smiled his thanks and reached for his wallet. 'We'll take three tickets, please, and a couple bottles of water.' He thought for a moment, and then, 'Is there a charge for the showers?'

'No, sir. Got plenty of hot water, too. I just made some lemonade a bit ago, should be cold by now, if you'd like?'

'That'd be real nice,' John said.

The woman paused for a moment, looking them all over with that scrutiny generally found in mothers and well meaning grandmother-types, then clapped her hands together once, loudly, the echo in the big space making Sam jump a little.

'I've got some honey maple ham in the fridge and Charlie just brought in some fresh tomatoes from the garden. I made bread this morning. How about I make you boys some sandwiches to take out on your excursion. That big 'ole shovel makes for nice shade in the summer and a right good spot for a picnic. No grass, no bugs.' She winked. 'And while I'm off doing that, you boys all pile yourselves through a good, hot shower. Down the corridor there, on the left.'

She didn't give John a chance to accept, or refuse, or pay for that matter. She turned on her heel and disappeared, leaving them all staring a little slack jawed. Normally strangers got a good look at John's bulk and skewed hair and three days stubble—sometimes the more perceptive caught the blood under his nails and the scent of kerosene and smoke—and did what little was necessary to get him gone. The boys usually earned him a little leeway when they were with him, as they both still looked pretty fresh faced, especially Sam, and young, much to Dean's dismay and inability to sneak into bars yet without getting carded. 

John sighed in grateful resignation and jammed his wallet back in his pocket. He'd leave a few bills one way or another before they left even if the curator, caretaker, owner, whatever she was, refused payment, and he had a feeling she would. 

'Sam, you want to go out and grab a duffle with some clothes. Clean if we got 'em.' Sam ducked his head and slithered out from under Dean's arm, pausing for a heartbeat to be sure his brother was steady on his feet, before loping back out to the car. 'Dean, come with me. I want to take a look at your back.'

Dean grimaced a little but obeyed his father, and they went down the hall to the very plain, utilitarian, but also very clean and fresh smelling shower facilities. 

'Strip,' John commanded.

Dean did so, hissing a little under his breath as he pulled his t-shirt off over his head. John turned him around and bent him over the sink under the bright light so he could get a good look at the bluish green and purpling, hand-sized bruise on his son's back. He checked his ribs first, even though he had right after he'd drug him up off the floor last night, but it had been dark then.

' 'M fine, Dad,' Dean said, but the taut way he held himself when John's fingers skated over the discolored skin, told another story. 

John gave his shoulder a light squeeze. 'Nothing broken.'

'Thought we determined that last night?'

'Don't get lippy with me,' John warned, but there was no bite in it. 'Go to the bathroom.'

Dean moved down to the end urinal which only amounted to two spaces, and started to unzip when he realized John was still watching like a hawk. 'You gonna watch?'

'Yup.' Dean's eyes popped. John rolled his in response. 'You have blood in your urine, and we have trouble. There's no distention or swelling that I can tell, so you should be all right, but that's the sure sign.'

'And I can't just go without you looking and _tell_ you whether there is or not?'

'After last night with your gun-ho heroics and the ensuing tough-guy attitude? No. You can't.'

'I'm _fine_ , Dad.'

'Then pee.'

Dean huffed and mumbled and turned about the shade of a sunburned beet, but he did relieve himself in clear view of John so he could be sure there was no blood which meant no internal bleed.

'Good. Now, go get a shower, and don't dawdle.'

'Yes, sir.'

John was peeled down to just his jeans and was unlacing his boots when Sam came in with the smaller of their duffles and both John's shaving kit and the one that Dean and he shared. John ruffled Sam's hair and took his own stack of clothes and kit and nodded to the last stall where steam was already rising and, if you listened just right, a low keening could be heard.

'Go help your brother. I think he's worse off than he's letting on.' Sam rolled his eyes as if to say that was obvious but there was a hint of worry, and John squeezed his shoulder and smiled. 'Nothin' too bad. Just bumps and bruises, but that poltergeist was meaner than hell, and he took the brunt last night.'

Of course, it was Dean's own fault he took the brunt of it, but John could still sympathize. He gave Sam a gentle push, and his younger son trotted toward the sound of running water. 

John grabbed a towel and stepped into the nearest stall, shed the rest of his clothes, set his clean ones up out of the wet, and turned on the spray. It went hot almost immediately, and John couldn't help the groan of relief that passed his lips as the water sluiced over his face and hair and down his back, rinsing off the first layer of grime and putting him one inch closer to feeling clean and civilized again. 

He soaped up and rinsed off twice, shampooed three times, and then leaned his forehead against the cool tiles and just let the water run over him. Their hostess was right, the water was good and hot and plentiful, and the pressure was perfect, massaging out some of the stress and weariness of the last twelve hundred miles.

Down the way, a little garbled by the patter and hiss of the water, John could hear Sam talking in low murmurs to Dean. 'Shh, shh. I know. I know it hurts. I'll be careful. Just lean on me, Dean. It's okay. I got you.' It surprised John, that soothing tone in Sam's voice, the cadence oddly close to how Dean always sounded when the shoe was on the other foot and he was comforting Sam, through injury, or sickness, or after a nightmare. It shouldn't, he knew that, after all Sam took most of his cues from Dean. It was natural, he supposed, since Dean had been his primary caregiver, always staying behind to watch over Sam until just recently because the boy had been too young to be by himself for more than a few hours, and he was way too young to hunt.

John sighed and shifted under the spray so it struck his sore shoulder more directly. He wondered sometimes if Sam would ever be ready to hunt. It wasn't like he wasn't trained, Dean was pretty much primary in seeing to that as well, and next to John, they didn't come better than Dean. It wasn't a lack of willingness either, because Sam had been asking for the last year to be allowed to go out with them. Sam was just…there was something more fragile at his core, something Dean either didn't possess or had walled off tight so that even John couldn't see it. It kept John from giving in and taking him out for anything more than a salt and burn and then only if the spirit wasn't violent. He supposed one day he'd have to let Sam come with them, put all that good training to work, and John knew he was good, had seen him with Bobby's throwing knives last summer when he'd left them both for almost a month to trail after a Badegira that had been sited up in the northern Rockies. Dean had said as much more than once, too, told him how Sam was sharp and quick and put two and two together faster than anyone he knew, including John.  

But today wasn't that day. Today, this afternoon at least, they were going to be…family. Father, sons, brothers. Not Hunters. Not ravaged, desiccated souls in search of revenge—though that particular definition only applied to himself, John supposed. He twisted off the faucet, heard the water still running down the way, and Sam's soothing voice still mumbling so much nonsense, just a steady rhythm and tone to keep his brother's focus. Dean was blessedly silent now, though, and John was glad of that. 

When Sam was hurt or scared, he turned to Dean, had learned to before he could walk and talk. When Dean was hurt or scared, though, he turned to no one, and John felt a guilty relief at that. Somewhere in the months of his eldest son's self-imposed silence after Mary's death, the two of them had misplaced the dictionary for father-son communication and now there was only teacher and student, or soldier and commander, and neither of those positions of authority were given to comforting their subordinates.

John swore softly, grabbed the towel from the hook on the wall, and began to scrub at his hair. He tugged on his boxers and t-shirt and stepped out to pull on his jeans and socks where it was dry. He was about to raise his voice to tell his boys to quit running the local water table dry when the spray shut off, and the boys' voices, if they were even still talking, fell below whisper range so that John could no longer hear.

He was finger combing his hair and grimacing at his half-assed shave job I the mirror when both boys came back up to the front, skin scrubbed pink, hair curling slightly in the damp, especially Sam's, and looking clean and a little less tired at least. Dean was standing better and didn't look quite so drawn.

'You good?' John asked him. 

'Yes, sir.'

John slung his duffle over his shoulder. 'Good. Let's go then.'


	2. Chapter 2

The lunch the woman at the counter, Mallory, John discovered, had put together a lunch of six sandwiches on thick slices of toasted homemade bread layered up with honey cured ham, ripe fresh tomatoes, cold crisp iceberg lettuce, and slathered with spicy mustard; a full can of Pringles; a gallon jug of  sweet lemonade; and half a dozen each of chocolate chip and peanut butter cookies, definitely fresh baked. John thanked her sincerely and attempted to purchase their tickets again so that he could pay her for the generous meal, too, but she somehow steered him away from the intent by pointing out to Sam the small selection of history books on the shelf by the door that lead out to the giant shovel. His eyes lit up at the opportunity to soak up more knowledge, and she promptly plucked one of the thicker books off the top shelf and handed it to him and gently ushered him out the door, leaving John no choice but to follow. 

John had pillaged their supply of canvas tarps and army surplus blankets in the trunk to make a good sized palette on the floor of the giant shovel just at the edge of the sun-line where they spread out their feast. Dean and Sam wolfed down their first sandwiches and half the can of chips, then took time to appreciate the flavor on the second round. They bantered back and forth about what parts they wanted to explore first, while Sam leafed slowly through his new book with one hand and pointed out interesting facts, then dared one another to climb to the very top of the crane that supported the shovel itself.

'There are stairs, boys,' John finally said, after they had reached triple-dog-dare levels. 'It's not like you have to go hand over hand or anything. Worst thing you have to worry about is a stiff wind rocking her.'

Dean fixed him with a slightly surprised look. 'You been here before, Dad?'

John swallowed his mouthful of lemonade. 'Mmm. Long time ago. Before you were born.'

'Was Mom with you?' Sam asked in a small voice. Dean elbowed him.

John closed his eyes for a second, then opened them and smiled a little. 'Yeah. Yeah, kiddo, she was.'

'Did _you_ climb to the top?' he asked. 

'No. No, I didn't.' John capped the lemonade jug and laid back, threading his fingers behind his head. 'And I'm not going to today. I'm going to take a nap, so you boys go on and investigate.'

Dean lifted an eyebrow at this out of character action from his father, but Sam was on his feet, grinning and tugging at the shoulder of Dean's tee to get him up and moving.

'Dude, this t-shirt is already stretched enough. Let go!' He batted at his little brother's hand, but he was already rolling up to his feet, ready to follow him. 

John smiled after them, watching them push and shove and then break into a jog to get around the giant treads to the entrance on the other side. He laid back, threw an arm across his eyes, and set out to make good on his promise.

He was just starting to drift into that place where sound and memory break down and blend and reform into something new and impossible, opening the doorway to dreams, when he felt the shadow fall over him. He twitched awake, automatically going for the gun that wasn't there (stupid) and coming halfway to his feet, poised in a crouch to roll or leap, whichever was necessary, when his brain clicked over and registered Mallory standing at the opening a few feet away. It was an intentional distance, he could tell. She'd known he would come up fighting. Somehow. 

Once he'd settled back and dropped cross-legged back to the palette, she approached. She wasn't smiling anymore, or at least not the same as she had been. It was sadder now, and a little sharp at the edges. She held out her hand. There were two shot glasses in it.

'Have a feeling you lost the first set,' she said. 

John stared at her wide-eyed. 

She laughed outright. 'You were quite a sight back then—still are—but you could definitely turn a girl's head. Even one my age.'

John blushed and ducked his head.

Mallory swatted his arm. 'Don't play coy. You knew were a catch, 'cept you'd already been caught, so you didn't care.'

'Yeah,' John smiled. 'Yeah, I was.'

Mallory's smile fell away to earnestness. 'But not now.'

'No, not now.'

'Not by choice.'

John shook his head, blinked, and drew in a steadying breath. 'How did you—how did you even remember it was me?'

Mallory shrugged. 'Always been good with faces, even the ones that are changed as much as yours. 'Sides, that oldest boy of yours is her spittin' image.'

John looked up, a little startled. 'You think?'

'Absolutely. She was a beautiful thing.' Mallory sighed, a little forlorn, maybe missing her youth at the moment. 'And so is he.'

John laughed. 'Don't go telling him. His head's big enough.'

They both laughed at that, and then Mallory set the shot glasses between them and produced two small bottles of Jameson from the pocket of her cardigan. 'I know you have to drive yet, and I'd recommend the motel Sage and Brush 'bout ten miles east in Weir. It's a tiny place, but clean. And cheap.'

John tried not to flinch at that. Hated that it hung on him and his boys so obviously that they needed to live on a shoestring and sometimes less.

Mallory cracked one bottle and then then next and poured. 'I have a feeling you've got some experience by the looks of you, though.'

John nodded reluctantly, lifted the glass and clinked it wordlessly against hers when she offered. They downed the shots together. It was obvious Mallory, too, had a little experience with good whiskey, and John wondered if that's what had tipped her off about him. Misery loves company.

They sat together in silence for a while, then John set down his glass and looked over at her. 'Thank you. For this. For everything. It's nice to know there are still good people out there. My boys don't get to see enough of that. It's all…shadows to them.'

'There's plenty of good people out there. More than you might think. You just have to be willing to look in the light, and your life is too consumed by darkness.'

John shuddered. 'How do you…?'

'I've seen my fair share of all kinds in my lifetime,' Mallory said. 'And that's a longer time than you'd think. I know what darkness looks like—grief, vengeance. I seen many a man wear it, for many different reasons.'

John just nodded and stared down into the shot glass beside his thigh, watching the light creep in slowly to fill it up as the sun slid across the sky toward evening.

'Dad! Dad, you've got to come—!'

Sam skidded to a halt when he saw Mallory. Dean was right behind him. John was alert in half a second, hand again reaching for the gun that wasn't there (dammit!). 

'Dean, what's going on?'

Dean looked at Mallory first, then John, chewing on the inside of his mouth in indecision. John just nodded at him. 'Cold spot. In the engine bay.'

'Any other signs?'

Dean fluttered a strained glance at Mallory again.

'Dean, it's okay.'

'Lights. The panel lights blinked, and one of the doors closed on its own.'

'Oh, so you've found our Joe!' Mallory said with a warm smile before John could question further.

All three men blinked at her.

Mallory waved her hand. 'Joe Sattler. He was one of the greasers in the engine room way back. He got sent up to the top of the crane one day, had to work a cable loose, but there was a storm settin' up for the night and a gust of wind caught him and tossed him off.

'He's been hangin' 'round ever since. Gives us a heads up when the wind is too strong, so we can close the crane for the day. That way no one gets hurt.'

'So, he's…good?' Sam asked, astonished.

'Yup. In fact,' she squinted at the cover of the book he still held clutched in his arms, 'I think you'll find a brief account of him in that book.' She turned to John. 'I'd be obliged if you'd let him stick around. He means well.'

John frowned. He was well aware of what could happen to even the most well-intentioned spirits. Eventually, they all went crazy. It was just a fact.

'Dad?' Dean asked, eyes flicking back and forth between John and Mallory.

John looked at Mallory for a moment longer, then his face smoothed out, and he turned to Dean. 'We're on vacation today, son.'

Dean stared for almost a whole minute, and John could clearly see him trying to fit this strange new piece into the puzzle that was his father. Finally, he just shrugged and came back in to drop down on the palate behind Sam and set his chin on his little brother's shoulder while Sam furiously flipped through the pages of his book to find the story of Joe Sattler.

'Use the index, dummy,' Dean teased. Sam swatted him, but he was smiling, and Dean laughed out loud.

John leaned back on his hands and tipped his head back. The whiskey was just enough to make his belly warm after the full lunch, and he could easily lay back and fall asleep, but the road was still waiting. Calling. He slid a  look over at Mallory.

'Thank you, again, Mallory.'

'Don't you mention it. Just remember to look in the light every once in a while,' she said. 'It may make the shadows a little less deep.'


	3. Chapter 3

The Sage and Brush was just as Mallory had promised. Clean and cheap. John got a double for two nights for fifty dollars and a recommendation to the diner across the way for six egg omelets, three-quarter pound burgers, and plate sized steaks, and not an entree over eight bucks. John thanked the young girl behind the desk and smiled when her gaze slipped sideways to catch a glimpse of Dean unloading the trunk. If they stayed longer, maybe Dean would score a date. 

But he doubted that they would. 

He had three voicemails on his phone already since they'd come back into range of a tower, one from Bobby and two from Jim. He'd be researching tonight and tomorrow, and probably on the road early the morning after that.

They tried out the diner that night, which was just as good as promised, and then went back to the room where Sam stumbled over to the far bed and face planted in the pillows. It was only a little after nine, but the kid had been in the car for three days straight, and he never slept well in the backseat. Dean followed him, yawning, smacked his leg until he rolled over with a pitiful grumble so his brother could unlace his trainers and tug them and his jeans and hoodie off before pulling down the covers and tucking them up around Sam's shoulders. The kid rolled toward the wall and was instantly asleep. 

Dean stretched, winced a little, and came over to the table where John was already spreading out the sheaf of local and national newspapers he'd picked up at the motel office and diner along with his journal.

'Need any help?'

John shook his head without looking up. 'No thanks, Dean. Just get some shut eye. We'll start fresh in the morning.'

Dean shrugged and went back to the bed where Sam was already curled up, sat down and unlaced his boots and shed his jeans. He was about to slide under the covers when he stopped.

'Hey, uh, Dad?'

'Yeah.' 

'Thanks. For today.' Dean chewed on his lips. 'It was really cool.'

John looked up, eyes a little defocused already, brain elsewhere, chasing after the next lead, the next hunt; but when he saw the timid look of hope in his eldest son's eyes, it brought him up short. He layed his pen down in the spine of his journal and turned a little toward his son, smiling gently. 

'Sure thing, Deano.'

Dean smiled and ducked his head down to hide it, reminding John of Sam for a second, and then he slid under the cozy blanket and rolled away from the bright light above the table. John just watched him for a few seconds, as he shifted and settled and eventually curled up along Sam's narrow back. John reached up and turned out the overhead, flipping on the bedside lamp furthest from the boy's instead, even though he'd have squint his already tired eyes in order to see. 

Dean was snoring inside of five minutes, and John turned back to his work. He pressed his hands out flat across all the pages for a few seconds and sighed heavily. Look in the light every once in a while, Mallory had said. Trouble was, John's world was overrun by shadows, had been for years, he worked by the light of the moon. There was no sun to cast a light to look into for him. 

He looked back over at his sleeping sons. 

But maybe— _maybe_ —if he could just catch the right lead, follow the right clue to Mary's killer, he'd be able to recover some of that light. For his boys at least. He didn't expect much for himself, wasn't nearly so optimistic. And if he did, if he could, maybe there would be more days like today.

A lot more.


End file.
